L'Hiver et la Lune
by sharksteeth
Summary: When she thought about it, she did not truly love all seasons of the year.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or anything else belonging to JK Rowling. Everything but the plot belongs to her and her publishers alone. I am not earning any type of profit on this. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Notes: I looked out the window this evening, at the winter. And then I wrote a story. =) Please tell me what you think; I've been in a huge block lately.  
  
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L'Hiver et la Lune  
  
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Seasons were wonderful, she thought. She loved them all. For most of the seasons, she could find something amazing, something really perfect, that she could say she really appreciated, and looked forward to each year.  
  
In the spring, there were newborn animals and the flowers began to bloom and everything was clear and green and smelled of new grass. She could finally run out in her favourite dress, barefoot, and dance through the stream, even though it was still far too cold. She could start climbing the trees again and she could stay outside later at night and she could begin her annual ladybug collection.  
  
She loved the spring. Dresses, trees, longer days and ladybugs.  
  
In the summer, everything was warm and bright and she could finally start picking apples from the orchard across the road. She could gather bouquets of yellow and pink and red and purple, and shower her bedroom with branches and plants and all that was good and green and simple. She would jump into the river without a second thought and her father would take her camping and eat marshmallows.  
  
She adored the summer. Orchards, branches, swimming and burnt marshmallows.  
  
In the fall, the road was lined with red and yellow bushes, and the trees were deep, rich shades of the same colours. She could wear her brightest, warmest sweaters, and have baskets full of fallen leaves and fluffy dandelions you could wish upon. She could teach her father to braid her hair in two long plaits, and they would rake and jump together before dinner. The tire swing became very useful, and she could say a tearful goodbye to the fireflies and the frogs, and promise to greet them next year.  
  
She absolutely treasured the fall. Red leaves, sweaters, dandelions, and farewells.  
  
But when she thought about it, she did not truly love all seasons of the year.  
  
For one quarter of the year, there was winter, when things were dark and cold and unfamiliarly monochromatic. The trees looked dead and her garden out back was hidden under a thick blanket of harsh white. The snow always managed to make its way through the wool of her mittens, and by the time she took them off, the tips of her fingers were pink and wrinkled and frozen. The cold air chapped her lips and nipped at her nose and her ears, until both were bright and glowing, and even her cheeks strongly contrasted her pale skin.  
  
She had never understood winter. The snow and the air was as white as could be. Even with the infrequent, yet still existent sunshine, the sky was gray, so that the stars didn't shine at night and if the moon was present during the day, it was left unseen.  
  
Sometimes, she even felt sympathy for the moon. The clouds enveloped it, whenever the wind decided it should have its way. The stars shone brighter, and they twinkled, when they thought they should be wished upon instead of it. The sun stopped right in front it, when it determined that it was, without a doubt, more important. Most of the time, the sun didn't even want to share the sky. When it wanted to rise and bring day to those living where she lived, the sun pushed its sister to the opposite end of the planet.  
  
And she hated that. So for three seasons of the year, she wished upon the moon and she closed her curtains to the clouds and the stars, and when it was windy she went inside and turned her back on the unfairness of it all. When the moon was actually up in the sky at the same time as the sun, she smiled at the moon, and frowned at the sun and said, "So there."  
  
But even when winter was harsh and cold and quiet, and the moon would probably never get the attention it deserved -- somewhere in between there, the wind stopped pushing the clouds, the stars didn't twinkle, and the sun wasn't even in sight, at such a late hour.  
  
Somewhere in there, a small girl with big, bright eyes and long golden hair was lying under a big, dead-looking tree in the snow, and her lips and her eyes were smiling at the sky. Her skin was the same colour as the shining orb in front of her.  
  
When she thought about it, winter (with the moon of course), was probably her favourite. 


End file.
